Find Me Behind The Light
by Eggtama
Summary: They say that every betrayal begins with a smile. They say that no death is ever an accident. They say that love can be found on the other side of the Himalayas or under your boot (but you never exactly know where). They are whispering of a boy in despair and a girl who disappeared from his heart.
1. Prologue

Prologue

"There is no betrayal without deceit."

That's what they told me.

That when you look up and the sky is blue, then it's a 'good' day.

That when the doorway is blocked by a mountain of snow on Monday mornings, then it's a 'bad' day.

For Gilbert, that is absolutely and utterly false.

They said, carelessly and with a smile, that every betrayal begins with a smile, but you have to believe there is still an ounce of goodness in that smile.

That's what they told me.

Well, I don't know.

Maybe Elizaveta knows. At least more than I do. And certainly more than Gilbert.

She always seemed to have that esoteric smile hanging on the crescent of her lips.

It was the type of smile that made Gilbert smile too. The kind that evoked a small voice in his head to run up to her and hold her in his arms, because if he didn't that diaphanous look in her eyes would rise and fly away, and he knew he would regret it if it did.

But maybe it would have been better if he had just let her fly.

They said women needs to be leashed in place, by men stronger than them, by men who hold the golden rope of power and eternity.

And then Elizaveta beat the crap out of them and told them (beaming brightly) to fuck off before she brought out the frying pan.

You see, no one really understood Elizaveta's smile, or why Gilbert had that strange urge to tie himself to her.

But that's probably because no one bothered to waste brain space on them.

Well, I wouldn't know.


	2. Before Dusk Falls

Before Dusk Ends

Gilbert's grandfather's casket was wooden, with a piece of long, stained glass covering the hollow where the body lay, old and tired.

To Gilbert, it looked as if his grandfather was falling through a hole, the stained glass made him look alive, because the vibrant colours hid away the darker shades of death hanging in between his wrinkles.

He remembers crying, his body shaking, and little Ludwig peering from their mother's arms, or maybe their father's. Who cares?

Now he felt Ludwig's large, pale hand resting on his shoulder

His pet bird scratched his other shoulder with weak claws, nestled in the crook of his neck

The glint of a pair of glasses on the other side of the room acknowledging his presence

The sound of a man talking on his phone in the shadows

A young woman's broken sobs

What was he doing here?

Can he go home now?

They were all here to attend Elizaveta's funeral.

_That's a strange thought._

The faces of people he didn't want to know were Elizaveta's friends, or acquaintances, or something. They each held a piece of memory containing Elizaveta, a piece that he didn't have. Those memories are precious now, because she's gone.

_What's gone?_

Suddenly, he wanted to kick open the heads of everyone there, smash them open and watch the bodily fluids flow together, steal it all and then set the building on fire. Collect jars and jars of memories filled with the stench of fresh flesh and blood. It would be better for him to keep them than to allow them to chip away with time.

After the mourning, a short speech was to be delivered by the family.

Elizaveta didn't have any close family left, just Feliciano, whom she took care of during their youth, and her boyfriend, Roderich, who stayed for a short while before he excused himself into the backroom and locked the door.

The faint sound of piano could be heard, if one wished it. Just silently, carried on by the lure of breaths.

Gilbert tried to block it out, that rugged smash of keys. It was a story he'd rather not know.

It was disgusting because he could _see_ Roderich's distraught eyes in his head, see him close the amethyst orbs and run his smooth, long fingers caress the keys, see that his pain was genuine, and that he truly loved her.

_But he couldn't have._

None of this matters, because another man gave the speech.

Not Feliciano, nor Roderich.

It was her childhood friend.

Oh, not Gilbert.

"Feliks."

He had emerald eyes that seemed to shy away from everything, hiding within themselves a dark fullness of empty words.

He shifted the microphone in front of him, swallowing. For a moment, Gilbert thought he would run.

But then his eyes landed on Elizaveta's casket and the most peculiar thing happened, for it seemed to give him hope, or courage, or maybe even fear, because with a reproachful shiver, he opened his mouth.

Gilbert didn't dare look at the thing.

"I'm always an hour late, but you forgive me every time. Every year," he said, and he must had saw Elizaveta, Gilbert knew.

"Thank you… and I'll, like, miss you."

He paused, a small lump gurgled in his throat, struggling, bubbling, quivering with hope held between its fingers.

"Do you have to go?"

Gilbert looked down at his feet, shifting them.

He'll have to go home after this.

Looking at Elizaveta's casket, which was so different from his grandfathers, was frightening. All that was clear to him was the smell of death, how it grappled and clawed at his feet, the lingering of Roderich's song in the background, growing and drawing into a climax, where it fell, quiet for a moment. Jumps of notes, a pizzicato, replaced the silence before it started to climb again… where it seemed to dance on the edge of a cliff and abruptly, came to a halt.

He didn't need to fall, not like Gilbert, not quite yet.

It was so, so perfect.

Gilbert would have happily fallen asleep then.

Ludwig's grip had already bruised his shoulder

Gilbird had flown away

Roderich slammed the piano shut

Feliks clicked the button on the microphone

and Gilbert staggered

Thank you… and I'll miss you.

Do you have to go?

Oh yeah…

And it's too late and too useless now…

Dusk streaked the room orange, Gilbert's eyes glowed in a way that their depth could be – and were – utterly revealed, where his retina glowed and his lens seemed like an open window. Maybe if Elizaveta poked his eye right now, her fingers, her entire hand could go through to grapple at his brain.

The light faded after a few moments, casting long shadows along the walls and the casket looked a hundred metres tall.

_Ah, fuck it all._

(**A/N**: hi)


	3. Just around the corner

Just around the corner

"Wake up! Wake up!"

Gilbert groaned and pulled his sheets over his head despite the cloudy day.

"Morning swim! C'mon Gil!"

Gilbert lived in a one person dorm, so from time to time, Elizaveta would sleep over, too tired to return to her room after a few bottles of vodka given to her by a friend who got it from the sister of a strange, Russian boy.

That's what they were, children.

So when Elizaveta dragged him out of bed and pulled a sweatshirt over his black tank top, he just groaned with disapproval.

The pool was a fifteen minute walk from Gilbert's dorm – six when Elizaveta jogged and for Gilbert, twenty. So they compromised and went for eleven, but Gilbert whined and groaned and fell asleep in the middle of the road so it took fifteen anyway. Elizaveta's swimsuit was old and standard. She bought it at the age of sixteen with the money she saved for a new camera when her green swimsuit with pink flowers looked out of place along the expanse of black and blue her teammates had on the first day of practice.

The swimsuit was a bit small, not by much, but when she took it off, Gilbert can imagine lines along the ends of her thighs and her breasts falling back into place with a bounce.

"What are you staring at?" Gilbert asked one time, she had stopped mid lane, took off and goggles and stared, quite unabashedly at the other end. Gilbert followed her amused gaze and wished he didn't ask.

"Don't they look like little virgins? Aww…"

Gilbert rolled his eyes and put his own goggles back on, "should have stayed back with Gilbird… so not awesome," he muttered.

Two men, or boys, probably boys, chased each other along the edge of the pool, the one with shorter, sandier hair fell in, and the other laughed, obnoxiously and loudly, before slipping and falling feet first on top of the shorter one.

It was Francis.

Gilbert swam a little deeper.

The way Elizaveta said "virgins' made it seem like she wasn't a virgin.

And that thought both irritated and excited him… but just a little.

A child, that's what he was.

A child that had fantasies confined by the boundaries coded in his head. When did he grow up into an old man? Had he ever grown up?

What was maturity anyway and why would anyone ever want it…

But this is just a recollection. If he had known then, he would have taken the time to skim his eyes over her a bit more, notice just exactly how the light bounced from her glistening skin, counted how many strands of hair were unrestrained by her swim cap.

On the newspaper, there was a small article not long after her death (death is a funny word, even the sound of it is meant to irritate, like the 'hiss' of a snake).

**HETALIA RESIDENT – 24, SHOT AND KILLED**

**POLICE SUSPECTS GANG ACTIVITY**

It appeared on the corner of the first page. It didn't reveal Elizaveta's name, but did concern a quote from an anonymous acquaintance, "she was a friend, my confidant, a natural leader. We'll all miss her dearly." A standard message, superficially made, but it was there, it gave some life to the Hetalia resident – 24.

Most of the front page was taken up by the black and white photo of Alfred F. Jones, found dead in his hotel room due to an overdose of… something.

Gilbert threw the newspaper away, tore Alfred F Jone's face in half and watched it fly out the window.

"Your room smells like old socks."

Gilbert chuckled and threw one at her.

Elizaveta caught it with ease and immediately began to walk towards him, smile widening.

Gilbert paid her little attention. He simply powered on his computer and yawned widely…

And then the sock was in his mouth.

All these memories mixed together like something he never felt before, building but also quietly eroding the bits and pieces of him that still felt it.

Still felt the strangeness of it all.

Or nothing.

Gilbert insisted he felt nothing.

When Gilbert fell conscious again, knocked back to the pain on his back and numbness in his right leg by Ludwig's gentle chant of 'bruder', he had the urge to cry.

Ludwig couldn't have knocked for long, because when Gilbert grunted in reply he pushed the door open and carried in a platter of wurst.

It didn't really smell appetizing, but it didn't smell any different from the usual either.

What was it?

_What was it?_

I don't know.

_What don't I know?_

I don't know.

_What's that?_

Who's Elizaveta?

_A girl, right?_

What?

_what._

"Bruder, it must be cold on the floor."

Bare feet scratched on the surface of the mahogany flooring, Gilbert shrugged, his feet were cold. So cold that the wood felt warm.

It wasn't that bad, not having her around. They haven't seen each other that often since she moved in with Roderich anyway.

But she was everything.

She was in the jeans he wore, the ones he bought for him during a sale (was it Christmas or the Fall sale?), the size and texture was so perfect that Gilbert didn't chuck it out the window even after holes had formed in the knees.

She was in Gilbird's food, the ones that she drove across town to pick up when she looked after him for a day. She didn't really need to but Gilbert accidentally locked her out and she left the keys she had of his house inside her own house – where she was also locked out of, and ended up driving around with Gilbird flying and pooping all over her car.

She was in the CD she lent him, the painting she painted of Gilbird, the picture she took of Gilbert, framed on the wall. She laughed and danced and cried in his memories, her hair was tied in a ponytail that came loose when she kicked the soccer ball during elementary school.

If anyone asked Gilbert where Elizaveta was that moment, he could honestly say, "she's dead", or he could honestly say, "she's here, alive."

But really, what's the difference?

Ludwig picked up his cell phone. Gilbert could hear sobbing on the other end, so he knew it was Feliciano.

After the call ended with more sobbing, Gilbert took a sip of beer.

"Who was the one that gave the speech?"

"What?"

"The speech, you know."

"Oh you mean Feliks."

Gilbert chewed the inside of his mouth.

"Who else was there?"

Ludwig took a seat on the bed, evidently overjoyed at Gilbert's attempt for an overdue conversation.

"I don't know all of them, but Belle was there, on behalf of her brother and Feliciano. They were friends, I heard."

Gilbert felt to exhausted to nod.

"Tino and Berwald were there too. They ran the coffee house she frequented," and he droned on and on, talking about the people in black, most of whom Gilbert did not recognize.

"Lili and Vash would have gone, but Lili caught a last minute flu… your friend, Francis was there, as was his… acquaintance, Arthur… Kiku showed up for a while and so did Antonio, Michelle…

At some point, Gilbert's heart pounded louder than Ludwig's voice.

And at some point, the clock marched faster than both.

_Tick tock, tick tock, tick_


	4. Possibilities

Gilbert doesn't believe in fate.

He never asked, but he thinks Elizaveta doesn't either. He can't be sure, though.

He ordered an espresso.

When he asked Ludwig a week ago, the café somehow made its way through his blank mind, and no matter how he tried to avoid it, he always ended outside its door.

"Thanks." He said to the waiter, a young boy with a warm smile.

"You're Gilbert," he said.

Gilbert nodded, maybe just like him, this man cared for Elizaveta enough to spend the time to look into the faces of the ones who were present _there_. You know, _there_.

"Well?" He asked, a hand inviting to the espresso at Gilbert's lack of movement.

Uttering a soft "oh," he took a sip.

"How do you like it?"

Gilbert frowned, "it's not awe- what I expected."

Tino shrugged, "she doesn't like it much either."

And then he took a seat across from him.

"She didn't tell you about me at all… that's a bit upsetting, Su and I asked her to do a bit of advertising."

Gilbert blinked.

"You would do better away from here. Away from her. Anything that reminds you of her. Or else the pain will never stop and she'll become just another burden on your back. At some point you won't be able to see her the same way you do anymore. It's impossible to love someone you know absolutely everything about."

Tino said this all very quietly, matter-of-factly, almost harshly. His lips barely moved as he waved to another pair of young men drinking coffee across from him.

"You have to forgive her too. Give her some privacy. It's only fair. After all, what else can you give her at this point? Let her pass. Let her be a mystery."

And Gilbert doesn't know what he's talking about anymore, except that he _knows_, he _knows _something about Elizaveta that Gilbert didn't.

"They say the dead can't rest the peace with attachments to the living."

He sounded like an old man.

"Did you know her well?"

Tino shook his head, "no, we had coffee. That's all."

When Gilbert left the coffee house, he felt himself weigh down, if that made any sense.

Oh wait, nothing made any sense anymore

What's sense and what's the point in making it?

It was windy outside and Gilbert crouched down. There was a fallen sand sack in his stomach, the café's background music still played in his ears.

_Kiss me hard before you go_

_Summertime sadness_

_I just wanted you to know_

_That baby you da best_

It was warm and cold and windy, it smelled like grass and car exhaust, it felt like graphite in the wind and it stank. Tino was crying and Gilbert drank coffee. The coffee was bitter with too much sugar and for some reason that made Gilbert envy Tino. He wished all the tears and bitterness could flow out too, but they just accumulated all in his stomach, boiling up the acid.

Gilbert didn't finish his espresso and Tino put it into a travelling cup for him. It was frozen in his hands.

He wants to be _in_ her, not physically, just so he could understand what she was thinking about, and simultaneously, he wanted to push her away, as if the knowledge would ruin her.

When he appeared outside his door, he stepped aside to let him in.

It was as though Roderich knew exactly what he came for, he was expecting him. Maybe he woke up early this morning to take a shower, because he was expecting him. Maybe he dabbed some of Elizaveta's concealer under his eyes, because he was expecting him. Maybe he vacuumed the floor and ironed his shirt, maybe he called take out so it would smell like food, maybe he jerked off in bed, maybe he took those soiled sheets and threw them in the washer, stuffing them in with the rest of the clothes that stank - until his washer was so full that it didn't start, because he was expecting him.

But he probably didn't.

It felt disgusting, how well Gilbert navigated through his house – their house. On the kitchen wall, Elizaveta's frying pan glistened of water droplets, just washed.

"You may take what you like. But leave me that," he said behind him. Gilbert tore his eyes away from it.

Roderich's house wasn't as neat without Elizaveta. Books lay open on the floor and sofa cushions were arranged awkwardly, like someone tossed them to the side for the sake of tossing them to the side. Yet, it wasn't Elizaveta's absence that caused the house to become disheveled, for Gilbert remembered how perfect it had been before Elizaveta's arrival.

They lived in separate rooms, Gilbert knew that because he often snuck into their back yard at night, foiling any after-dark activities, planned or unplanned. Though it seemed useless as these "activities" were non-existent to begin with.

Roderich must have stayed in Elizaveta's room before he arrived, there was his pot of tea, but it looked cold.

He was free to take whatever he wished?

Oh yes, Roderich was moving.

Gilbert just stood there, admiring it all, condemning it. There was a long green dress laid out on the bed, and a various assortment of trinkets spread out on her desk.

Car keys, the key to Gilbert's apartment, the key to Gilbird's cage, a key that he didn't know, the key to Roderich's garage… keys. Is that a bike key?

The room smelled like her, looked like her.

The clothes she wore inside her closet, her makeup in one particular drawer, a mirror behind her door, this room is Elizaveta, and Elizaveta is this room. This room embodied her thoughts, her personality, her secrets.

He began to shift through her closet, there was a various assortment of brassieres, panties, stockings, and a new swimsuit. He threw all that on her bed, along with a cotton flannel shirt, one that matched his and a pair of work jeans with a splatter of motor oil across the crotch.

Then carefully, he removed her laptop from its case. It was sleek and silver and cool to the touch.

Finally, he took the pink flower ornament from her beside table and jumped on the pile, taking in her smell. Vaguely, he felt the laptop slip off the bed and onto the carpet with a thump.

Surrounded by her.

This was her he was lying on top of. She was everywhere. How could this not be Elizaveta? How could this not be Elizaveta if this is everything Elizaveta was made of? If Elizaveta is a smell, if Elizaveta is a sound, a whisper, a shadow, if Elizaveta changed motor oil, if Elizaveta wore ornaments in her hair, then this must be Elizaveta.

So please let him believe that for just a little while longer. _Please_.

Tired and lightheaded, he flipped open his cell phone and went to voice mail.

"Hey, Gil, I'm coming over in five. You got any pads? Or tampons? Or something?-" her muffled voice said.

"Yeah, diapers," he interjected.

"Mind if I stay over?-"

"Pay for rent."

"Thanks!"

"You're so not awesome, Liz."

He unbelted, slid the leather right off his waist and tore off his jacket and tank top, Elizaveta's stockings were right under his head. Along with it, he tossed down the shirt and dress. Abruptly, he lifted his back and shoved off his jeans, taking a whiff of her stockings. She didn't wash them.

From the bedside table, he grabbed her hand lotion. It smelled of limes.

As his fingers set to the familiar motion, rocking up and down, twisting and jerking, he was frantic; he needed to finish before the magic was over. He turned to face her panties, well aware of how he had forgotten to wear his boxers this morning. Or maybe it was yesterday morning? When did he last take a shower?

It felt good, warm and sluggish, a half-arsed dream.

He could imagine her in this bed alone at night, because God, that damned aristocrat must be impotent if they're sleeping apart. What would she do? Pull a hand into her pajama pants? Which finger would she use? Her index of course, and she would just rub, almost softly scratching at the nip, and maybe Roderich would step into her room after knocking his snobbish knock and talk to her about how Beet-what's-his-face was German. Or maybe she'd be webcamming with Gilbert himself, but her hand (the left one), wouldn't stop moving as she popped chips into her lips, sucking all the fat off her fingers.

Or maybe she liked to flip through porn, gay porn, with ear plugs as she smiled at the webcam, shiver in pleasure when a particular scene unraveled, maybe she liked being watched, enjoyed it when Vash and Ludwig camped out in Gilbert's room. She probably did it everyday, on some days, the blood might get under her fingernails and she might think it's a total pain to wash it out. Perhaps she's gotten used to blood, the smell of it, the taste of it.

Elizaveta's twenty-four, her boyfriend's penis gets off playing piano, and she decided not to have any friends with benefits.

When he left, he carried her hair tie, that flower ornament, her laptop, some clothes, her swimsuit, a bottle of nail polish and her bed sheet.

He took everything he could, and yet, he took nothing at all.


	5. What light?

Gilbert doesn't think Elizaveta was ever in love with Roderich.

Maybe she loved him in her own way, the way she loved Feliciano, but sex must be strange, or maybe it wasn't so strange, if one cared to believe so.

Gilbert thinks this because he thinks he's never seen Elizaveta in love before. He would like to, though. He can't imagine her like Belle, who enjoyed travelling and foreign lovers, ravished one-week journeys, enough to write trilogies of for each. She packed those weeks with compact passion, she doesn't talk about them much, but when she does, she is like an old lady speaking of her first love, a hint of nostalgic sweetness, so that nobody ever knows just how much of it is true, and how much is fabricated by her fantasies. She _loved_ them. It was always past tense. Elizaveta seemed a bit different; she seemed to be attached to things. Not quite like Francis, who fell in love with (an old phrase) love. Who enticed himself around the natural, embellished the stomach rolls when they hugged their knees, the soft flesh bending to his will when he clawed at their thighs, how their lips melted into his when he kissed them, enamoured by fields of muscles, sliding past east each other, quieted by the sounds of their voices. Francis loved them all, loves them all. Being Francis' lover meant you were his love forever, it meant you have him infinitely, unconditionally, as long as you allowed the simple fact that he also loves others, so many that you would not be able to count, and many more to count. For some reason, most stopped bothering with Francis when they learned that.

What about Elizaveta though?

Would she be loyal? Unyielding? Motherly?

No. She'd just be Elizaveta, just the same as ever. You'd never know if she were in love with you or not.

By the time these thoughts faded, he was outside another house.

He doesn't know what he gained, travelling like this, he felt a bit like a stalker, to peek into Elizaveta's secrets, just a bit.

He rang the doorbell.

It's a nice house, he decided, not really looking.

There was a scuffle and the thumping of someone running to the doorway, then abruptly turning back.

Annoyed, Gilbert pressed the button again.

"I head you, you little-"

"Be quiet!" A hushed voice whisper-screamed back, "what are you doing here? I, like, don't even know you!"

Gilbert licked his lips. He doesn't know either.

"I just want to talk." Wow. How lame could he get?

The man on the other side hesitated, debating…

"Just talk here."

Gilbert rolled his voice.

Well, he could always-

"you see, I'm albino, the sun's not good for me."

That one always works.

But it didn't, not this time.

So he leaves.

If leaving was easy, and if leaving meant stepping away from pain, then Gilbert would gladly leave. So in a sense, Gilbert didn't leave at all.

Gilbert doesn't know when friendship ended and love began.

He tried to ask Elizaveta once.

"Why isn't friendship love?" She asked back.

The event that evoked this question felt dimly intimidating in his head. There was a girl, or a boy, or something… and what did they do?

He remembered Elizaveta's affairs a little bit better.

In university, after she started dating Roderich. It must have been last year, then, there was a Turkish man, he had a strange name, Sadiq? Was it? Anyway, it was awfully funny (in Gilbert's opinion) watching Roderich's face turn red and white, blotches of it, when Sadiq appeared under Elizaveta's window and sang some sappy love song about conquering flowers with swords.

Gilbert just laughed, it wasn't particularly funny to him, but it should be, so he laughed.

Feliks said that Gilbert loved her.

Just once, when Gilbert sat outside his door.

It was quiet, and soft, and about a week after Gilbert started sitting outside his door.

"You love her."

Did he? Maybe, in that quiet fashion he adopted when loving things, though that didn't seem quite right.

Feliks had painted his fingernails, they were shiny now, colourless but shiny and they shook.

And Gilbert remembers.

"I have a friend who works in design. We paint our nails together." It was one of those small details that existed in Gilbert's brain in Elizaveta's voice. It spoke to him randomly, absurdly, and he really didn't want to hear it at all.

"Totally n-ot awe-some," he said back.

Elizaveta must have retorted, with some… thi…n…

Gilbert was sweating now, Feliks was there, but he wasn't there. He was invisible in the door behind him, and yet he was right in front of him. Nothing made sense, everything made sense.

What?

All he knows is that an array of bruises and scratches tore away his body, piece by piece.

They appeared effortlessly, sometimes, he'd find a thin red filament, healing. Despite their fragile nature, they left scars of all shapes and sizes, some short, some long. Gilbert hadn't expected them to litter so much of his skin, imprinting tiny little scars – not exactly scars, just a part where the skin appeared a little darker, a little brownish against him, against the translucent skin that seemed grotesque, with blood vessels almost visible, he could almost feel the blood flowing through him.

Gilbert thought about them for a second, and then he was back, a tangible mess of impatience and anger.

"Tell me." He demanded the man behind the door.

Feliks shook his head ever so slightly and stepped back, part of his face shadowed.

Of course, that's all in Gilbert's head.

"I can't tell you what you don't want to know."

Gilbert can't really remember what happened next, maybe he could, but I can't. All in all, he found himself walking back home.

He would visit Feliks again, he decided.

"You can't push it too hard or it'll just fall off the talbe."

Elizavta just came back from a trip, this was after winter break, she had brought back a doll like thing that Gilbert conveniently forgot the name of.

Either way, when you push the doll, it leans in the opposite direction, away from you, and when you take your finger away, it bounces back towards you, swaying about.

Elizaveta was wearing a blouse, collar open, a polka-dot tie loosely hung around her neck, black and white, or maybe white and black. She wore tight yellow jeans, her hair tousled messily in a pony tail, with strands falling into her face, she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

Gilbert yawned loudly.

"Do you want food?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

"Well I want food too."

"…"

"C'mon. Run downstairs, they're selling sushi today."

Gilbert groans, but gave in when Eilzaveta fell onto his bed with a thump dead tired after a trip.

He knew her when she lay like that, face down, inert. So he circles the campus a few times before buying sushi. There wasn't much he could do when she's like that. He learned that the way Elizaveta liked to be alone is like that. He learned it, the way Elizaveta liked to be alone is like that of an old man who's lost his life, Gilbert didn't understand it too well. It's different for Elizaveta, that much he knew. Because afterall, he had Ludwig, a brother. Elizaveta didn't. Gilbert considered becoming her brother when he was younger. The idea appealed to him, but something stopped him from carrying it out.

When he returned, three boxes of sushi in a little plastic baggie, Elizaveta was on his lap top. Whatever happened next hadn't seemed like an important memory, so Gilbert shed most of it.

She was reading something, most likely gay manga.

He told her to delete the history, what if poor little innocent Ludwig saw the hardcore banging?

Elizaveta laughed and said Ludwig probably already kne-

Gilbert fell down on the open pavement, walking back from Feliks' house. It hurts.

But just a few more scratches, bruises and scars.

That's all.

Two weeks, two weeks for this to turn into his life.

He patted himself on the back, admiring how well he adjusted.

He was blown up, dirty, crying. Four-year-old Ludwig lugged behind him, also crying. But he couldn't hear anything other than his own sobs.

He can't remember how long he cried for, nor how they managed to slip out of the ruins, cold and tired, but they did.

"We can't stay small forever," that was one of the first things (s)he said to her when they met again, he still thought the other was a boy.

No matter the age, or time, Hédévary had changed. Something in his movement or speech, or both, that perhaps scared him a little, not realizing he too, had changed.

"Me an' Liz met when we were real young, three or four or sommat, I was just this wee lil' thing, and to be honest, I can't remember properly but I don't think we liked each other all that much."

Silence followed, he didn't attempt to talk to him face to face again, not quite so soon. But on the other side of the door, he knew Feliks was listening.

He decided to try what Feliks had suggested (well, not really suggest), and get it out of Roddy.

"Well it's a nice day. Gilbird likes it. Sun's shining and stuff."

"Man, Gilbird, I feel he's getting to me ya know? Like his opening up." Gilbird chirped.

Elizaveta pressed people against the wall when she wanted to seem intimidating.

"So, what did you say?" She'd ask with a smile.

Sure enough, it was scary. But one strange time Gilbert noted that he had grown taller than Elizaveta, though that hardly made a difference.

It felt good anyway. But then he realized Elizaveta is capable of smashing your head in no matter your height, where you live or what you are.

Gilbert blinked hard, he wanted to know, but maybe some part of him didn't care. He was too calm. Every muscle. He was afraid of what would come after this calm numbness when it disappeared. All his wounds, scars and flesh must rip open, and the pain must be unbearable, white and burning.

"When you don't know the answer, just listen to the rain."

Gilbert was crying, or semi-crying, or something. It was teary and confusing and a bunch of bullshit, all he knew was that he had to cry and cry, and cry. Crying was catharsis and Elizaveta was good at pretending he's air.

It must be strange, talking to air.

It's also embarrassing leaning into her shoulder and holding onto her waist as he shook, but he did it anyway.

It's summer now, and not a single drop of rain dared to fall from the cloudless sky. Gilbert had on dark polarized sunglasses that made him look like an FBI agent and a large, heavy military like umbrella over his head.

He stopped by his house, taking in a glass of water from the counter. Ludwig most likely set it out. Beside the wursts were cold and beer that had fizzed out. A plate of mashed potatoes with saran wrap over it.

He missed lunch again.

Heading to his bedroom, he opened his closet, sliding the door open with a groan. Elizaveta's things lay on the carpet, bright contrast to his neatly folded underwear.

Taking out her lap top he set it on the mahogany floor and flipped it open. The password as always was GilbertIfYoureTypingThisImGoingToMakeYouHurt

It's long and sometimes it's just GilYouWillHurt

"No use now Lizzy" he whispered, half expecting the frying pan to crack open his head.

It was the usual, he clicked open chrome and waited for the page to load, it was her email, the last web page she opened, to Lovino.

Hi Lovi, how are you? You changed your number again so I can't reach you.

And that was all, not sent yet.

The front door slammed, Gilbert sighed.

The pitter patter of foot steps down the stairs, slovenly.

"good morning, Gilbert-san."

"Oh hey Kiku, did I forget to lock the door?"

Kiku shook his head, "No, Ludwig-kun told me to come in. Should I leave?"

It was an empty question, but it had to be asked.

Kiku is a strange man. He looked young, but the moment he spoke, he sounded like an old man.

"No, dun worry, come right in!"

He beamed as brightly as he could.

The scruffling of shoes being removed felt absurdly loud.

"So, anything to drink? I've got a hell lota beer…"

"No, that would be fine."

"You sure? It's hot as hell."

"No, I wouldn't want to impose."

"C'mon, just one glass."

"Well… if it's just only one glass."

"You have to ask him three times." Ludwig's instructions echoed in his head.

_Weird bunch_, thought Gilbert.

He sat for a while, sweat drenched and blinds down, two glasses of beer on the coffee table that Gilbert wanted to throw away.

"Thank you."

Gilbert nodded, waving the thanks away with an airy hand.

They sat in silence for a while.

"It's been hot recently," Kiku commented, "are you faring well?"

It was a delicate question, softly phrased. And crushing.

Gilbert shrugged, "nothing outrageous."

"It would do you well to unleash yourself from the heat of it all," he said lightly, almost gently.

"You think I should go have a dip at the pool?"

"No," he shook his head, "put yourself in the freezer, ghosts aren't fond of electrical appliances."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow, "ghosts? So not awesome."

"Yes, Gilbert-san, but this one is a nice one. If you don't worry it, if you don't meddle, it will leave and rest in peace."

Gilbert chuckled at the ceiling, "is it a pretty ghost?"

Kiku searched relentlessly, wandering, "yes," he said finally, when Gilbert almost forgot the question, "it is beautiful. Nothing as beautiful nor horrible had ever appeared on a ghost before. From my experiences," he added humbly.

The conversation didn't exactly go like that. But that's okay. There might have been screaming, but Gilbert liked to make himself sound good.

"You're a strange one, aren't you? I'm hardly surprised, all my bruder's buddies are pretty weird."

When Ludwig came back, disturbed to find Gilbert chuckling to himself on the sofa, Gilbert upped and patted Ludwig on the shoulder.

Throwing on his sunglasses and picking up his military umbrella, he waved to the pair.

"It would do best to let the ghost go," Kiku said again.

Gilbert chewed his words dreamily, "thanks for the warning, see ya."

"What?" He heart Ludwig mutter to nobody in particular.

Flipping through his phone, he absent-mindedly called Lovino as he locked the door.

"What?" He sounded harsh, tired. Gilbert supposed the hospital wore him out.

And as though it was some dream stopped short, Gilbert's sluggish grin dropped to pieces.

"I thought you changed your number."

His voice sounded foreign, cold in his head.

"Huh? Oh yeah, I was going to but this happened and everything's in a fucking sling now."

_Going to_.

He was _going_ to.

Gilbert raced back home.

The feelings I had as a thirteen year old were strange. They grappled at the wrong parts of me and hardened me into something I didn't want to be. They burnt and they stung, but I was unrelenting. Just like a bad smell, if you smell it enough, you can't smell it anymore.

If I say 'everything's okay', will you believe me?

Would you believe Gilbert, if he said to you, that he doesn't miss her? Would you believe him, if he said that old clichéd line? The one about leaving her with a smile and moving on so that she could be happy too?

You wouldn't, right?

Then what would you believe? What do you know about Gilbert for you to say that? You don't really understand Gilbert at all, do you? Well, neither do I.

Gilbert is the sound of


End file.
